


Five Times Neal Caffrey Had A Hundred Grand Between His Legs

by longwhitecoats



Category: White Collar
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Lance Armstrong will never forgive me, M/M, Multi, OT3, Theft, but that's ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 03:15:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4375049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longwhitecoats/pseuds/longwhitecoats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Chad Stewart: Have you ever had a hundred grand between your legs?</i>
  <br/>
  <i>Neal Caffrey: Actually, I have.</i>
</p><p>  <i>  --White Collar 3.6, “Scott Free”</i></p><p> </p><p>Does what it says on the tin. Final section is set immediately after 3.10, "Checkmate." That's the most recent ep I've seen, so uh... don't spoil me, I guess? :D</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Neal Caffrey Had A Hundred Grand Between His Legs

**1\. Mozzie**

“Jesus, walk slower, Mozz.” Neal’s breath caught as he walked. Although he’d been tailoring his slacks fashionably tight lately, he was wondering now if some things were worth sacrificing fashion for.

Mozzie was undeterred. “We have a flight to catch, my dilatory friend. Time and tide wait for no man. And neither does Lufthansa.”

“I cannot believe you’re stooping to the level of _aphorisms_ ,” Neal grumbled, but he willed himself to move faster, shuffling and wincing as he went.

The security line was blessedly short. Neal tried not to shift back and forth too noticeably, but he fidgeted. After a couple minutes, Mozzie gently tugged his hand away from the front of his slacks, where he realized he’d unconsciously been holding it for protection.

“Let go of my hand.”

Mozzie snorted. “We’re a _couple_. And you’re clearly nervous. Your _palms_ are sweaty.”

“I have good reason to be nervous.”

“Hiding things in plain sight always works. For goodness sake, just allow yourself to be comforted. You can squeeze my hand if it gets painful.”

“At least you have a nice manicure,” Neal sighed, settling into the grip.

“Always.”

When they reached the front of the line, they took off their shoes and belts—Mozzie’s was rainbow—and put them in trays along with their jackets and shoulder bags. Neal’s pants bulged even more lewdly without the tension of the belt, and he felt himself blushing. He could see Mozzie sneaking glances at him, smiling. He looked a little smug. Neal’s face reddened even further.

The airport security agent motioned Mozzie through. Mozzie put up a good act, but Neal could see the way Mozzie’s whole body tensed when he walked through the machine, how his hands trembled a little even after he was waved through. This was really hard for Mozz. He reminded himself of that. He was doing this so that Mozzie didn’t have to.

He took a deep breath.

The machine went off immediately, of course.

“Kommen Sie hier, bitte,” the agent said, waving him over with her wand. She was sexy, dammit—taller than Neal, massive, very stern and very dark-haired, with easily a hundred pounds of muscle on her. Not someone he’d like to be in a fight with, but someone who—oh, God—his brain was very helpfully supplying images of him _losing_ a fight with.

He shook his head. “Uh, sorry,” he said, flashing her a smile. “American. You said—come over there? Okay, yup.”

She waved the wand over him. Her expression didn’t change. He could swear he _felt_ it when the wand alerted right over his zip.

Her eyebrows went up, and she appeared to be stifling a smile. She had a sense of humor, at least. That would help.

“Ve haf a private screen,” she said. “Please come mit me.”

“I’ll be right here, sweetie!” Mozzie called. Neal smiled weakly in his direction. Oh god. He hadn’t been looking forward to this. At least he wouldn’t have to fake being humiliated.

Stern Sexy Security Lady held a curtain open for Neal and then followed him into what was really a very small room. She looked at him expectantly.

Neal coughed. “Uh, sorry, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to...”

“Ve need to see vat the beeping iss,” she said. “I’m afraid you vill haf to remove your trousers.”

“Oh,” Neal said. “Um. Okay. C-could I just tell you what it is?”

“Iss it medical?”

“No...” He bit his lip, staring down at his socks. His face must be bright red by now. He imagined the security officer leaning forward, tearing his pants off, calling him _Schatz_ and _Süßling_ and putting her hand right on his—

“Your trousers, please.”

There was nothing for it. Mozzie hadn’t let him wear underwear. He’d said it would complicate things.

Slowly, he unzipped.

“ _Scheiße_ ,” said the Stern Sexy Security Lady, and then clapped a palm over her mouth.

“I know,” Neal sighed. The skin around it was still sore, but most of the puffiness from the healing had passed, and the piercing was clearly visible, made more so by the hard-on he’d developed while waiting for this moment to come. It was a very traditional and very beautifully done Prince Albert, made slightly less traditional by the fact that the jewelry comprising the piercing contained a row of six inset rubies of exceptional quality.

Neal knew they were of exceptional quality, because he’d stolen them himself.

“That vil be all,” the Stern Sexy Security Lady said. Her face was doing something complicated, and her cheeks were tinted a very attractive shade of pink. “You may go.”

Muttering incoherent apologies, and relieved that Mozzie’s plan had worked, Neal clothed himself again and stumbled out towards his partner, who was holding his shoes. Mozzie kissed him on the cheek.

“How’d it go?”

Neal swallowed. “Honestly, I’m a little wobbly.”

“Here.” Mozzie offered his arm.

Neal smiled. “Such a gentleman.”

“For you? Always,” Mozzie said, helping him to a chair.

Then, more softly, Mozzie said, “I’ll make it up to you later when we take it out.” Neal smiled.

  
**2\. Kate**

“Mexican again?” Kate lifted the plastic bag to her nose. “Smells like—fish tacos?”

“You can tell that from the smell of the bag?” Neal wiped down the low wooden chest they used as a table and a work surface. He’d been mixing paint earlier, and he was always careful to put a cloth down and wipe up afterwards, but better safe than sorry when you ate near chemicals.

“No,” Kate said, eyes bright with amusement. “I just know that you order fish tacos when you’re happy.” She nodded at the easel in the corner. “And you finished the Raphael today.”

It was late summer in New York, and the evening light in their bare white apartment made the forgery glow as if it were the real thing, hanging in the National Gallery. Saint Catherine leaned tenderly on her wheel, draped in finely detailed, richly colored cloth. Neal’s eyes traced the line of her halo, where a gossamer trail of gold crossed the blue of the sky. He’d left the halo for last, executing it in a single sustained stroke.

Neal looked at Kate.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, answering his unspoken question. “Of course it’s beautiful. You know that. Come on, let’s eat.”

She turned away from him to unpack the bag on the table. Something wasn’t right.

“I want to celebrate,” Neal said. “This deserves celebration. Don’t you think?”

“Yeah, totally,” she said, not looking up.

Neal walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. At the back was the bottle. It’d taken some doing to get, but he had it: a bottle of 1959 Moët & Chandon Dom Perignon Rosé, last sold at auction for around $87,000, which was over a hundred thousand in today’s dollars. He’d chilled it nicely. He took off the wire wrapping and set it aside.

Bottle in hand, he sat down next to Kate on the couch as she dished out their tacos and two neat little servings of ceviche.

He put the bottle between his legs.

“I wanted to do something special,” Neal said. “Since this is going to be your very first masterpiece.” He reached for the cork.

“Yeah,” she said distantly. “About that.”

Neal’s hand hestitated.

“I’ve been thinking,” Kate said. “About, I dunno, Europe is so _far_... and I’ve never done anything this big before.” She sighed. “Maybe you should do this one without me. I mean, just for now.” She took a bite of taco. “I could always do the next one. When I’m ready.”

Neal blinked rapidly, willing the lump in his throat to go down.

“Y’know, I think red would go better with this,” he heard himself say. “Let me just put this back.”

When he got to the refrigerator, he picked up the little wire wrapper and folded it neatly, precisely, over the top of the bottle. He twisted it shut. He put the bottle in the back of the fridge with its label to the wall. Then he cried.

Then he wiped his eyes, grabbed the nearest twenty-dollar merlot, and went back to Kate.

  
**3\. Alex**

“ _Run_ , you long-legged asshole,” Alex said, laughing. “Come on!”

“This is—Alex—Alex, this is a lot harder than it looks!” Neal panted. His arms burned with effort.

Alex didn’t let up her pace. She was shockingly fast in those boots. Her hair whipped like a flag in the night air she looked around for the _Polizia_. “They’re gonna round the fucking corner any minute!”

“Look, just _trust_ me,” he yelled, stopping dead. “It’ll take me thirty seconds to crack that lock. I can’t carry this. But I can ride it.”

She stopped then, too, and turned around, assessing him. They both looked at the bike. It was ready to ride, in pristine condition, its seat probably still retaining the single-testicled imprint of its belaureled former owner. All they needed was to get through the lock, and it’d transform from a dead weight to an escape vehicle.

“Well, what the fuck are you waiting for, then,” she said, chest heaving.

Neal set to work. It wasn’t as complex as a safe combination lock, thank God, but the wheels felt stiff under his fingers and he had to rotate the second wheel twice to make sure he’d felt the turn correctly. Neal had just about figured out the third wheel as the noise of a siren faded in, drawing closer.

“Come on, come on,” Alex said, hopping from foot to foot, watching him. “Just—yes!”

The lock popped free, and Neal swung a leg over. “Think it can take both of us?”

“Lance is heavier than he looks!” Alex whooped, and jumped on the back of the racing bike as if it were a motorcycle. “Go!”

Neal went. Now that the bike was under him instead of jerking along next to him, it felt light, fleet, as if its goal and his were the same. The precision of its steering was a sheer joy; Neal could compensate for the shifting weight on his back and still make hairpin turns around tiny cobblestone streets that were better accustomed to scooters and lost tourists.

“You’re the fucking _best!_ ” Alex screamed as they vaulted a drainage ditch. He laughed, but wild with the joy of the chase, she repeated it as they flew along the dark Italian streets and away into the night, repeated it until it rang in his ears: “You’re the _best_ , Neal Caffrey! Don’t you ever fucking forget it!”

  
**4\. Diana**

The shop was empty save for the proprietor, who grew quickly taciturn at the sight of Diana’s badge and then brightened again at Neal’s smile and the explanation that they were just looking, thanks, and was there anything special in the back, because Neal’s boyfriend had a birthday coming up, and oh yes, he _does_ like the viola de gamba, please bring it out, thank you.

“It’s not here,” Diana grumped. “Nobody’s dumb enough to sell to a _retail_ place.”

“Have faith,” Neal said. “Mozzie’s information is usually good. What, you don’t like music?”

“I dropped out of Julliard, actually,” Diana said, as casually as if she were talking about getting a coffee after they finished their search. Neal’s heart did something funny in his chest.

“You—what? You were a musician?”

“For about ten seconds, yeah.” She looked wistful, her gaze sweeping over the softly shining wooden bodies of all the instruments that crowded the shop. Neal felt a sudden urge to run his hands over the wood of a nearby violin, as if his own body was responding to Diana’s secret, repressed desire.

Diana sighed. “It wasn’t meant to be, Neal. I don’t usually think about it, to be honest.”

Neal thought about letting it go. But something in the way she was folding her arms, almost protectively, and allowing her gaze to drop, suggested that this might be a time for a friend to push a little bit.

“What did you play?” he said, wandering past her into the side room. The bigger instruments were in here. It felt like a forest. No street noise reached this part of the building. He could hear the proprietor rustling around softly in the back of the shop.

Diana followed him in. She walked over to a nearby instrument and then stopped. “This.”

“This? You used to play the cello?” Neal couldn’t help himself. He grinned. “Do you still remember how?”

“It’s not like you forget,” Diana said softly, and that was when Neal knew he’d been right to push. He had an idea.

“No, you don’t forget,” he agreed. “Do you think there’s a couple bows around here somewhere...?”

When the shop owner got back with the viola da gamba, Neal and Diana were sitting together, each straddling an 18th-century cello, doing their best to adapt the first movement of Bach’s cello suite in G into a duet. The music filled the room with a warm, golden sound, and the shop owner leaned against the doorframe, listening, until the final note was gone.

  
**5\. Peter & Elizabeth**

“Oh my God, don’t stop,” Neal panted. “Oh God—oh _Peter_ —”

“He loves it when you say his name,” El giggled, as Peter moaned sluttishly around Neal’s cock. “Mmm. I need that tongue, though.”

“Whatever— _oh_ —whatever you say,” Neal gasped, and El threw a leg over so she could sit herself properly on Neal’s face.

“Do it like I taught you, now,” Peter said, pulling Neal’s dick out of his mouth. “Nice and slow. And no biting.”

“Actually, hon, I think kinda like the biting,” El said, rolling her hips. She was so _wet_ , her inner thighs completely soaked, and Neal licked up and up around the crease of her hip before setting to work tonguing her clit. She moaned.

“Oh,” Peter said airily, as if he were being corrected on some obscure point of FBI filing procedure. “Well, carry on, Neal.”

“Mmmf,” Neal said from underneath El, desperate.

“I think he wants you to keep sucking his dick, honey,” El said, her voice dark, edged with a tone of command.

Peter chuckled. “All right.” Neal felt his tongue begin to work up and down the shaft, teasing in long, slow strokes, and then Peter swallowed all of him down in one go, and Neal had to grip El’s thighs to keep his vision from whiting out.

“Come on, sugar,” El said. She always called him _sugar_ in bed, maybe not meaning anything by it, but it reminded Neal that she was just that little bit older than he was, and it excited him. He sucked at her fervently. “Ah. That’s so good, sugar, yeah, do that, keep doing that— _oh—_ ” Her thighs began to tremble, and Neal licked eagerly at the base of her clit, as fast as his quick tongue would go. It was her third orgasm of the night, or maybe fourth, and she was on a hair-trigger. “Oh _Neal_ ,” she gasped, and he could feel all her muscles clenching even as Peter was nosing at his balls.

She rolled off him, still shaking a little. “Oh, that was great,” she breathed. “Thank you, sugar.”

“Ah,” Neal said, as Peter began sucking him again. He thought he could feel a finger gently slipping behind his balls and toward something more. “Anytime, El. You’re wonderful.”

“Hey, I’m the one about to get you off here,” Peter said.

“I think you spend more time talking about it than doing it,” El said, and Neal startled into a laugh.

He looked down to see Peter doing his affronted face. “Hey, she said it, not me.” He smiled at Peter. He was lying on his stomach between Neal’s legs. He still had a black eye from his scuffle with Keller. “You’re wonderful too.”

“Damn right I am,” Peter said, and— _yup_ , there was the finger, oh God. Neal’s breathing sped up. El leaned over and began teasing one of his nipples. He’d lost track of all time, and he didn’t particularly want to find it again.

“You like that?” There was a gentler tone in Peter’s voice than usual—something tender, maybe. He always liked being a little forceful with Neal, and something about co-topping with El made him get all warm and fuzzy, like he was so full of happiness that he couldn’t keep up the Serious FBI Guy schtick any longer. Neal loved him for it. 

Peter added another finger without waiting for an answer. He started fucking in and out with them, leaning down to suck Neal’s cock again while he did it, keeping eye contact with Neal. Neal groaned.

“ _Yes_ , Peter, I like that, oh God—” El pinched his nipple. Neal threw his head back on the pillow. “Guys, seriously, I can’t hold off much longer—”

“That’s okay, sugar,” El said. “We can take a break for drinks or something.”

Neal smiled, his eyes fluttering shut. “That’s a great idea,” he said. “I’ve got a rosé champagne in the fridge that I’ve been saving.”

Then something occurred to him, filtering down through the haze of pleasure that dulled his ordinarily swift mental calculations.

“Peter,” he said, and the tone of query in his voice made Peter stop and look up. “How much do you make a year?”

“What?” Peter laughed. “Are you kidding?”

“Just curious,” Neal said.

Peter blew out a puff of air. “Uh, I guess around ninety-five thousand?” He shrugged, which did something funny to the fingers he still had inside Neal, and Neal moaned.

“Oh, but you got that raise recently, hon,” El said. “Remember?”

“Right, I forgot.” He dipped his head again. “So around a hundred thousand,” he mumbled, Neal’s cock half in his mouth. “Why?”

“No reason,” Neal sighed happily. “Just trying to value what I’ve got, that’s all.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to Toft for looking this over, and to all the friends who have encouraged me to get into this adorkable show!


End file.
